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Spitting sour acid onto the broken asphalt, I croak, "I'm having your baby, Chip. Isn't it magnificent?"
He offers a half-smile at my sarcasm. "Miracle of life. Jeanine, breaks over."
Jeanine, the waitress I was covering for is standing across the alleyway with a cigarette in her hand. I didn't even see her there.
She nods to Chip, "Be right in." To me she frowns, asking, "You sick or something?"
Twice. I've seen him twice, in two different places. And Chip was the one who told me to take the table, so he saw them, too.
But did he see what I saw?
I nod my head. "Watch my tables? Just a few minutes?"
"Yeah. No problem." Jeanine stamps out her cigarette, coughing her way past me.
Jake was not English. But that boy has his same brilliant copper hair. His eyes and strong jaw.
The kitchen door swings open again as Chip bursts back into the alley. "What the hell? Are you actually sick?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Then get your ass back to your station. The lunch rush is picking up."
Propping myself against the side of the building, I beg, "Five minutes?"
I hear the creak of the kitchen door as Chip steps back inside, yelling, "This counts as your break."
It takes another few moments for my breathing to return to normal. I keep my eyes shut tight, willing myself to calm down. I've got maybe another two minutes before Chip starts to get angry. And before then, I've got to make a choice.
It isn't him. It isn't him. He just looks like him.
I've heard about people who aren't related looking alike. It's possible. But there's only one way to be sure. I have to suck it up and roll back inside. Back to work. Work is good.
Once I'm back on the dining floor, I'm disappointed. First, because Chip was exaggerating. There are four tables in Jeanine's station and two in mine. Second, because I don't have the guts to look at the two guys, quietly waiting. So I stop at the pie case, wiping at streaks that aren't there. When Jeanine walks by with an order ticket, I take her by the elbow and inquire on the customers at table two.
"Two young Brits. Yeah. Very cute, too." Her eyes widen. "You want to ask one of them out." She accuses, trying to hide a smile.
"No." I answer, a little too forcefully. They look too young, I think, but don't say. "I just want to make sure they're still there."
She points to the unobstructed view. "Clearly. If either one says 'yes' to a date, you better be ready to foot the bill, because those two are broke."
I roll closer and look around the long room, taking in every occupied table but the one I'm most interested in. "I'm not asking anybody out. And how can you possibly know something like that? They've been here all of five minutes." My stomach is still constricting.
Jeanine shakes her head. "Did you see them? The curly-headed one has a stamp on his hand. A red shield."
I nod knowingly and feel a twinge of pain searing across my chest. When I first came to LA, I was broke. I stayed over at the Salvation Army shelter for the first few months. I was grateful for the bed, but some days it was tough to get a meal. They fed the children and their parents first, often running out of the main course before they got to the single adults.
My gut clenches again. "What did they order?"
"Two waters and a half-order of fries."
As Jeanine says it, Joe, the line cook, calls up the order. I thank Jeanine and roll over to grab the hot plate from the window. I'm out of excuses. I've got to suck it up and get the job done.
On my way to the table, I stop back at the pie case and cut two slices, load them with whipped cream, and then pour two glasses of milk. With my full tray in hand, I take in a deep breath, bite my lip, and push forward.
Deanna once told me, 'the only road through is called, do.' You do what you gotta do.
I catch sight of the two young men, and am trying desperately not to think about how much the lanky, copper-haired one reminds me of Jake. But it's impossible to look at one and not think about the other. The resemblance is too striking.
